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I thank him absently then resume my sketch, as the image of the creature the phallus belongs to materializes. Not a man, but a god. I have no idea if he’s an actual god or not, but this is just practice.
By the time class ends, I have the most unconventional idea for a piece of jewelry. Not something that depicts a dick, butsomething to bewornby one. The idea both elates and terrifies me. Creativity has been painfully lacking since I came to St. George and this is the first time I’ve felt excited about a project in the two weeks since I arrived. Does it mean I have ursa blood, since my idea requires working with metal and precious stones? I could just as easily craft the thing from glass, which is more of a dragon-blood medium.
I’m so excited, I carry the sketchbook to the dining hall and continue working through dinner. I flip to a fresh page, sketch the outline of the item, and picture the appendage it will adorn. Audra sits across from me, along with two of our classmates from another studio.
Rachel says under her breath, “So, Aud, are you going to spill? Were you with both of them or just Steven? What’s sex with an ursa like?”
“God, Rachel, can we not do this while we eat?” Shawn says.
“You know if she were banging a turulyou’dbe asking the questions,” Rachel says.
I glance up to see Shawn shrug and grin as he takes a bite of his dinner roll. He winks at me, and I roll my eyes back to my sketch.
“I’m feeling some dragon love, too,” Shawn says. “I made a blown-glass flute today. We’ll see if it actually makes music.”
“Too bad there aren’t any single dragons at the school,” Rachel says, gaze drifting across the hall to the table where four of the resident dragon shifters sit, chatting. They’re all spoken for, but that doesn’t stop us from speculating.
“I heard dragons can heal wounds if they absorb sexual energy,” Shawn says. “And sometimes they use their own sexual energy to heal an injured partner. Handy if they like it rough.”
“They should totally have Higher Races Sex Ed, don’t you think?” Rachel suggests. “All of them are so…special… in that way.”
“How are the turul sexually special?” Audra asks. “I thought their thing was just singing… and having theirone true matewho they know the moment they set eyes on them. There isn’t anything particularly sexual about that.”
“No, but they’re rumored to have epic skills in the bedroom. They control the weather. Lightning, thunder, wind, and rain…” Shawn gets a dreamy look, as if he’d happily chain himself to the pier in a storm just to find a mate.
“What about you, Nem?” Rachel asks. “Which one speaks to you the most? Kinky nymphaea? Sex battery dragons? Let me guess…”
She turns to face me and I shift uncomfortably as her stare intensifies. She’s positive she has dragon blood, so she’s been practicing her dragon sight, which allows them to see auras. After a minute, she frowns and tilts her head.
“What is it?” My stomach clenches at the odd look on her face.
“I must be doing it wrong. All I get is static and weird, broken light. You looked like a Picasso, like you were made of angular shards. Read nothing into it. My eyes aren’t used to looking at people that way yet.” She pats my arm, but seems disconcerted.
It leaves me even more off balance than I was before I came up with what I thought was the best idea ever. My idea feels ridiculous now because I’m still clueless about which medium I should use. I excuse myself, dump my leftovers in the trash and stack my plate for the dishwashers, then head outside, ready to put as much distance between myself and this school as I can.
Chapter 2
Nemea
There aren’t that many places to go, being on an island in the middle of Puget Sound. But it’s a summer evening and stays light past 9pm this time of year, so I wander for a while. Paths wind through the dense woods thick with scent. Cedar, pine, and moist, loamy earth. Ocean sounds are never far, but despite the solitude and idyllic scene, I can’t chill out. What if I never find out what I am?
When I first arrived, I took the assessment they give all new students. It was inconclusive. I thought they’d kick me out that day, but April Vincent and her six mates all insisted that if anyone even makes it to this island, we’re meant to be here. Something to do with a magical forcefield of Fate magic that keeps out anyone who doesn’t belong.
I’ve soon wandered to the edge of the water on the western side of the island. The sun burns red, casting the sky in fiery hues. Vancouver Island’s trees a few miles offshore are silhouetted beautifully and I’m tempted to stop and sketch, but can’t bring myself to bother. I’m not feeling an awe for the scenery like my first night here. If it won’t spark some deeper understanding about my nature, what’s the point?
I turn away from the sun and aim for a creek that runs downhill over mossy rocks into the sound. Red-orange light glints from within the shadows of the forest and I squint. The sunset is behind me, so what the hell is that?
Heading for it, I find a neglected path that runs along the bank of the creek. The barely visible yet unmistakable path leads up a hill to a small clearing where a quaint, run-down cabin peeks out at the sunset, its windows reflecting sanguine light.
“Rad,” I murmur, excitement overcoming my gloom. I study it, then pull out my phone to snap a photo.
The light is fading fast, but the day is at its most magical right now, with the sunset gilding the fine mist that permeates the air everywhere on this island. My camera can’t quite do it justice, but I can fill in the details from memory later. My preferred style isn’t exactly what you’d callrepresentational,though. I’m more of an abstract expressionist. At least that’s how I describe my art in the imaginary interviews I have in my head. Interviews that take place during art shows I’ve never had with art I’ve never finished.
In those fantasies, I never quite picture the art itself. Sometimes I see paintings, sometimes mixed-media sculptures. Sometimes I’m sweaty from performing interpretive dance. Most often, the only thing on the walls in my imaginary gallery are lights and shadows, ephemeral paintings created by my careful placement of objects hung from the ceiling. Their permanence is as fleeting as my grasp on my own desires.
But this little cabin looks like the perfect place for me to figure it out. I stow my phone and tread the flagstone steps to a wide porch, railed with knobby tree branches. I have to kick an abundance of leaves away from the door before trying the knob. It isn’t locked, and when I push it open, I’m awash in sage with a tinge of must.
Not surprising. The cabin’s interior is a snapshot of another era. The furniture all appears handmade, from carved wooden chairs to the nubby woolen blanket draped over an overstuffed sofa, one half of which has stuffing pouring out of it and clear signs of some rodent having nested in its guts. There are noelectric lights—only several oil lamps in wall sconces, with more on the table near the window of the main room and on the mantel of the stone fireplace.
